


Moral of the Devil

by Monsterunderkilt



Series: The Manse [45]
Category: Actor RPF, Celebrities - Fandom, RPF - Fandom, Real Person Fanfic - Fandom, Real Person Fiction, Shakespeare - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28782690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt
Summary: Sir Ken convinces me to join the heartbroken Jon and Stephen in the bathtub so we may find our courage again.Featuring some wisdom from Shakespeare’s “Henry V”
Series: The Manse [45]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1209447
Kudos: 1





	Moral of the Devil

“Madam, I’m concerned about your husbands.”

I slowly look up from my iPad keyboard, holding my thought about Versailles’ Salle de Glaces, and see Sir standing before my office desk, hands on his hips, a grave look upon his face. My heart twitches at how ruggedly handsome he looks with a bit more beard than usual. Someone was keeping him out of the bathroom.

He lowers his voice, as if the following words are a delicate state secret. “Jon and Stephen are both occupying the bathtub right now, pouring each other what I consider an excess number of fingers of whisky and laughing nervously about… well, you know…”

Ahh, that’s why the whiskers. “Ken,” I say gently, hanging my head in shame, “I feel that their behavior is… perfectly acceptable at this point, unfortunately. In fact, if I went in there right now, I’d probably join them.”

Ken’s face is a well of sympathy. “How are you doing?”

I push back from the desk and lean into the leather chair, idly swiveling it back and forth. I hold out my hands. “I lack words for what I’m feeling.”

He puts his hands together as if in prayer. “Shall I fix you a… medicine?”

“You’ve told me before… _you’re_ my medicine.”

He cracks a smile, infectious as hell. “The unction unto your soul.”

I nod. “A most flattering one.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” he says, still smiling as he walks around the desk. He leans down and awkwardly hugs me in my chair. “Would I ever be so dishonest as to flatter?”

I groan as I hug him back. He squats down before me and holds my hands tightly in his. I ask, “What shall I do?”

“Honestly? Drink deep ere you depart.”

“From the bathtub?”

He nods dramatically. “Jon and Stephen need you.”

“I shall oblige them, then,” I say as he helps me stand against the gravity of insanity in this world. I hold up a finger. “But you have to remind us to get out after an hour. I have recitations to practice, as you well know.”

“It goes without saying, Madam.”

I leave Ken in the office and stroll into the bedroom, where I immediately hear boisterous cynical laughter echoing out of the bathroom. The curtain is wide open, and my other husbands see me as soon as I step foot on the tile floor.

“Madam!” they call out in unison.

“Men! I understand we are drowning our woes.”

“We certainly are!” Jon says, holding up his half-full crystal whisky tumbler. He points at the counter, where five different bottles of amber medicine are sitting. “We’re having a tasting party. Grab a glass and pour yourself some—which one are we up to, Stephen?”

“The Glenlivet 12,” Stephen says, sloshing his whisky as much as his words. “Go for that one first. You have to catch up.”

“How many have you had?” I ask as I walk to the counter and study the bottles. “These all used to be pretty full.”

“Sir Ken asked us the same question,” Jon says.

“We didn’t have an answer for him either,” Stephen adds.

I roll my eyes and pour myself two fingers. “Come on, you guys, you’re drinking as if Biden didn’t win the election.”

“But it’s WORSE now!” Stephen yells. “We had a fucking COUP!”

“We _survived_ a fucking coup,” I correct him. “I was just as appalled as you were… crying for hours until I turned off the TV.”

“And as fucking sad-sack as I was on 9/11, curled up in a fetal position under my desk,” Jon says, shaking is head, “This has me more unsettled.”

“You mean _ibbledick_.”

Jon clinks his glass with Stephen’s. “I stand corrected.”

I sidle up to the tub, make a slight Moses-like motion with my arms, and the two men part to either side so I may sit in between and facing them. I raise my glass and they tap it a little too hard before we all take a hard gulp. I smack my lips and swirl the whisky a touch, absorbing its vapors.

“To Joe and Kamala,” I say seriously. “The more fortune they have, the more for America.”

“To Joe and Kamala,” Jon says.

“To Joe and Kamala,” Stephen says.

We clink glasses again, but pause in a communion-like moment of silence and contemplation before drinking. I stare at the space between them at first, holding back the hot tears beginning to sting my eyes.

Jon places his hand on my right knee, squeezing it reassuringly. I meet his eyes first, and see in the tight purse of his lips that he’s exactly where I am. I look to Stephen just as he rubs my other knee, and his cheeks are wetlands. I breathe deeply and finish my drink so I can put the glass down between my feet. I grab their hands, interlacing my fingers with theirs, and hold them against my chest. I recall all the times these two have helped me understand and get past such times in our history, and I feel feeble. I close my eyes and dive deep into my heart, finding only empathy with Titus Andronicus: _Why, I have not another tear to shed._

_“Tis true that we are in great danger.”_

I turn my head over my shoulder to see Sir at the doorway, arms folded over his chest. As he continues, he catches each of our gazes and slowly steps forward, infused with inspiration.

_“The greater therefore should our courage be..._

_There is some soul of goodness in things evil,_

_Would men observingly distill it out._

_For our bad neighbor makes us early stirrers,_

_Which is both healthful and good husbandry._

_Besides, they are our outward consciences_

_And preachers to us all, admonishing_

_That we should dress us fairly for our end...”_

Ken squats beside the tub and reaches his arm over my shoulder to gather all our hands together. His eyes harden with fortitude and hope for us.

_“Thus may we gather honey from the weed_

_And make a moral of the devil himself.”_

We all exchange looks, all smiling for once, despite tear-strewn cheeks. Ken quickly kisses my temple, breaking the silence.

“What was that?” Jon asks. “Something terribly iambic, I’m guessing.”

“Henry Five?” Stephen says.

I laugh, my heart overflowing with all the love for these nerds. So many times I’ve said it’s _Henry the Fifth_ and Stephen still says it that way...

Ken grins and gives him a thumbs up.“You know your Shakespeare, Stephen.”


End file.
